


Because no matter how hard he fights for air...

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe), Boffin1710, natalieashe



Series: Can't Drown My Demons, They Know How To Swim [25]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving On, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Real Life, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/pseuds/Boffin1710, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because no matter how hard Q fights for air, it’s not reaching his lungs... And Q can’t breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because no matter how hard he fights for air...

Because no matter how hard Q fights for air, it’s not reaching his lungs.

Q can’t breathe.

It started as just a little bile creeping upwards, an uncomfortable feeling eating at the back of his throat, but manageable as he went to search for the last bottle of wine for evening. He had volunteered to let James and Alec continue to visit with Moneypenny and their other dinner company.

Down in the wine cellar though, with nothing to distract him, it rose up with a vengeance. He gagged a little, managing to fight it down as he moved various wine bottles to a safer spot on a lower shelf as he hunted for just the right one.

But just a few brief moments later it attacked again, with a vengeance. And this time, he was unable to hold it off. It pushed its way through his throat, blocking it off. The slow dreamy sensation of asphyxiation starting to fuzz the edges of his brain.      

He briefly considers poison, trying to logically assess his predicament, but knows that anything strange in the wine or food should have affected someone else. The thought fails to comfort him as he struggles for breath, managing to heave in a bit of air with a great hacking cough. It doesn’t last his long and within moments he finds himself driven to his knees, panting desperately.

His mind unhelpfully fills in that this is likely a panic attack, but he can’t think what would have triggered it. (Actually, his whole life is capable of triggering one.  The recent kidnapping doesn’t help the issue either... which is probably the nasty culprit backlashing at the moment).

The gasping noises he’s making are echoing eerily off the floor of the cellar, a macabre music as his senses narrow down and start shutting off.  He tries to reach for the door, mind filling with curses, as he realizes that the distant lilting melody cascading into his head is reminiscent of a tune his mother used to sing to him when he was little. 

Curling tighter in on himself, one arm wrapped around his midriff and the other clawing at his throat, he manages enough energy to give a small dry heave. It expels a thick discharge on the floor and he is distantly grateful doesn’t contain any crimson threads of blood, another memory that clouds and crowds into his head. The gratitude lasts only as long as it takes for him to find that his problem hasn’t been solved. Black, unmerciful and cruel, is threading and spotting and tunneling his vision.

For a brief moment it feels exactly the same as it did when a hand had been brutally closed around his throat, cutting his off from hopes of ever being safe inside again.

He makes one last ditch effort to do… something, he’s not sure what. It may be trying to reach the door or the stairs, or to stand up, or even just to try to heave in another breath. But whatever it is... he fails.

Falling backwards, he muzzily wonders who will

be errand boy going to fetch wine from now on. It takes him a long moment to notice that his back hasn’t hit the floor, though it has impacted against something solid. Solid and warm and his lungs are still burning with a cold numbing fire, but the warmth feels nice.

Fingers are threading through his hair and a hand is carefully prying free the fingers he has clenched around his throat. A scent drifts past his nose and even though he can’t find the air to draw it in, it still manages to assail his with its comforting familiarity.

_Alec’s cologne._

_Alec._

“Breathe Q. It’s okay. Just breathe. Alright?.  I’ve got him James.  Just a little unexpected incident.” Arms wrap around his loosely and he’s pretty sure he tries to cling to them, but his arms won’t move of his own volition and he simply slumps back against Alec’s chest. “Q. Come on Q. Just breathe. It’s okay. Just breathe.”

And suddenly he’s free, the pressure in his chest and throat suddenly gone. A breath stutters itself into his lungs and after what feels like an eternity, another one follows it. And then another and another until he’s breathing again, uncertain and sputtering, but still breathing and it feels _glorious._

_Safe_

He leans further back against Alec’s chest, feeling more than hearing the sigh of relief that Alec lets out against the back of his neck. He still can’t gather enough air for words, but Q is fairly sure that Alec can feel the gratitude radiating off him.

Finally managing to turn his head, he vaguely attempts kiss Alec, not even aware of the lack of air this time. And when he starts to lose consciousness, he doesn’t even mind, not when Alec has returned the kiss with a fervor. Alec pulls away as he starts to go limp, but the look that passes between them assures that everything will be fine when he wakes up again.

Q breathes. He shuts his eyes and just _breathes._ And when he feels Alec’s breath joining, mingling, and threading through his own, he passes into the black fuzziness with a smile, finally protected and comforted by the spark that had been intertwined in Alec’s kiss.

 


End file.
